


Truth is a Story (Scribbled in Chalk)

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: The Missing (TV 2014)
Genre: Almost Phone Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bi-Curiosity, Canon Het Relationship, Celia is understanding, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Married Couple, Mental Instability, Open Marriage, Phone Calls & Telephones, Spoilers, Tony Has Issues, sex as a coping strategy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth about Oliver's disappearance is destroying Tony as much as the uncertainty ever did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth is a Story (Scribbled in Chalk)

**Author's Note:**

> Finished season 1 yesterday and was gutted there were no Julien/Tony fics. So of course I had to write one.
> 
> Title is a reference to Karine Polwart's 'Hole in the Heart' which I was listening to on loop while writing this. Go listen to it, it really is great and fits the mood of The Missing, I think. :)
> 
> Takes place between the case's end and the epilogue. Spoilers to the outcome of the case. 
> 
> Rated for chapter two, which will have the sex. Chapter one just has lots of sadness.

* * *

The surprise, when it came, was not that they wound up in bed together, but rather that it took as long as it did to transpire. Julien suspected much earlier, and had months – years – to decide what to do with his suspicion. He was content to put it aside and let it gather dust. In the end, it was Celia’s fault it came out at all. He mentioned the Hughes case, mentioned Tony, and she said something about him needing to save people.

“People like Tony Hughes,” she clarified. She did not need to specify further – Julien could sense what she meant. He made to protest, but found her smiling, shaking her head.

“You need closure, just like he does. I know it isn’t like you, to stray – I won’t take it personally.”

He found himself torn between gratitude and embarrassment.

“We don’t know it will happen.”

“No,” she conceded. “But when it does, I will understand.”

There were many instances where Julien expected Tony to engage him – to lean on him for support, perhaps, and then to beg for some respite, with words, or with a press of lips, or a hand on his arm. When the truth was revealed in Alain’s hospice room and the weight of it tore the Irishman to pieces, Julien half-expected to be grabbed bodily and kissed.

It was not so. Julien was not often wrong, and he found himself wondering, as he saw the distraught father off, if he was relieved or disappointed.

“Home is not just a place, Tony,” he said, and it provoked another flicker of _something_ in the other man’s wild eyes.

“By that definition, my home’s here with you.”

It was meant to be sarcastic, Julien supposed, but the way Tony’s face crumpled as he said it made them both pause.

Slowly, deliberately, Julien reached across the car and placed his hand on Tony’s knee. He felt the Irishman’s leg bounce reflexively – nervously. Tony swallowed, looking even more desperate and unhinged than usual.

“What do you want to do, now you have found the truth?”

Tony’s throat worked to force out an answer. He floundered for a moment, panicking like a fox in a trap.

“I don’t know –”

“Please, Tony.”

“I want to get drunk,” he blurted out. “I want to get drunk and I want to forget and I want to k-kiss you.”

Julien nodded and withdrew his hand. Tony shook his head violently.

“It’s the grief – must be. I don’t – I mean, I’m not – and I know you aren’t – you’re married.”

“My wife… she understands.”

“She – what? You _asked_ her –”

“I did not have to.”

Tony nodded faintly, looking vaguely nauseated.

Even then, nothing happened. Tony told Julien about the rehab and staggered out of the Frenchman’s life.

“You’re worried about him,” Celia stated later, warm and soft in her husband’s arms. She traced random shapes on his stomach.

“He is… a danger to himself, I think. He cannot accept that his son is gone.”

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“It’s no good. He listens only to himself.”

Her hand slid lower, traced something else.

“Have you tried…?”

Julien’s eyebrows rose.

_“Non.”_

She shrugged and leaned her head on his shoulder fondly.

“Might help.”

The call came late in the night, and Julien nearly missed it, limping slowly to the phone. When he answered, Tony was all in his ear, in his head, frantically talking, obsession bleeding over the wires. Words, as usual, did not dissuade the Irishman. The madness was at home in him. Julien could only watch helplessly as he threw himself into an inferno over and over again. _He’s destroying himself_. _Do something now, or he will be lost._

“Sorry for waking you – I shouldn’t have – I should just do this alone.”

“No! No, Tony. You are not alone. Where are you?”

A sniffle.

“Does it matter? Some… hotel.”

“Have you been drinking?”

A haunted, broken laugh.

“What do you think?”

Julien sighed and hobbled to the nearest chair, sinking into it with a soft groan.

“Shit – I did wake you.”

“Mm. My leg was bad today – I would have been up anyway.”

Absentmindedly, he rubbed at his surgical scars with his free hand.

“I’m in London… I want to see you.”

“If you come, you can stay with me. I’m sure Celia will understand.”

He hoped she would, anyway.

“I couldn’t –”

“She understands,” Julien repeated. “It’s okay, Tony.”

The Irishman released a shaky breath. Static on the line.

“God… I must be… m'so drunk. I could fuckin’ kiss you.”

He sounded scared by the admission. Julien sighed, scratching at a ridge of ropey scar tissue.

“I would not say no,” he offered, more for Tony’s peace of mind than anything. He could picture Tony’s face, his eyes, the way they’d show his every reactionary thought.

“You – you’d let me –”

“It’s been some time for you, no?”

“Since I –?”

“Yes.”

Another laugh, but this one sounded tired. Sadder.

“It’s been ages.”

Julien nodded, kneading at the tensed muscle of his thigh, phone cradled against his ear.

“What would you do? What would you _like_ to do?”

Tony swore.

“I don’t know – I’d just...”

“Yes?”

“This is stupid!”

“... Tony?”

“What?”

“What would you like _me_ to do?”

_“Suckmeoff.”_

The words came in a rush – an involuntary one, if the agonized groan that followed was anything to go by. Julien allowed himself to picture it – not kneeling, not with his leg. Sitting on the bed, or the couch, Tony standing before him.

“I... could do that,” he admitted. “How would you like it?”

“I can’t – your hair.”

“My hair?”

“I’d pull your hair. Take big handfuls of it and –”

“And?”

“I’d fuck your mouth.”

The frisson of heat the whispered words inspired was less of a shock than Julien expected it should have been. He felt himself twitch with interest, and dug his fingers deeper into the meat of his thigh, legs falling open another few centimeters. He cast a glance at the bedroom door, which he’d left ajar.

Tony swore again.

“Are you hard, Tony?”

The question made the Irishman release a tiny whimper that crackled through the phone.

“… yeah.”

The word was a whisper, barely audible. Julien lowered his voice, not wanting to wake his wife.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s – how is it okay? Christ, Julien, I’m not a –”

“Neither am I.”

“Then why… why do I want you? God, I want you… you have no idea.”

Tony was drunker than Julien had first thought, his brogue thick and rough as he slurred.

“It's okay, but not like this,” Julien elaborated gently. “You will regret it, if it happens like this.”

“Don’t tell me what I’ll regret! My whole life’s a damned regret – what’s one more stone around my ankles gonna do?”

Julien sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He slumped with exhaustion as he spoke.

“I will meet you. In London. Send me the address. I’ll leave in the morning.”

The pause that followed was a long one. Finally, Tony told him, and then broke down, sobbing into the receiver.

“I can’t go on – you have to see me,” he pleaded. “I’ve got no one else.”

“I know.”

“Promise me you’ll come.”

“I promise.”

They talked for twenty more minutes about nothing. Soft, soothing things. Bees. The weather. Anything to help Tony control his breathing. Once he felt safe ending the call, Julien said goodnight. He dropped the phone to his lap and looked at the ceiling, Tony’s desperate voice ringing in his ears.

He awoke the next morning with a blanket placed over him, and his suitcase waiting by the door.


End file.
